


For Whom the Bells Toll

by Ookamii



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers, The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1996)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Disney, Disney References, Disney Songs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2018-12-06 07:34:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11595918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ookamii/pseuds/Ookamii
Summary: Set in Paris 1718, Kiku believes his world to be so small until he meets pirate fugitive Arthur Kirkland. Unfortunately his master, Notre Dame's archdeacon Ivan Braginski, is not tolerant of pirates and yearns to either own Kirkland or see him hang. Based off Victor Hugo's The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1831).





	1. Chapter 1

It was March of 1698 when Ivan, a pious and austere orphan immigrant, was visited by an old friend and confidant. Yao approached the Cathedral of Notre-Dame with clods of dirt and stale manure stuck to his shoes and a bundle mewling in his arms, and after finally making it inside -  both him and his babe chilled to the bone and stinking of the streets of Paris - met Ivan in his living quarters pale and starved.

“Yao!” Ivan exclaimed, taking the thin man in his arms and gently rocking him. He was so cold that Ivan almost believed he had ice in his veins. “It has been years, my friend,” Ivan whispered in a hushed tone, holding Yao at arm’s length to get a better view of him. “Where have you been? You’re nearly starved – let me fetch some -,”

“Ivan,” Yao snapped, interrupting his friend. The baby squirmed in his arms, disturbed from its napping by his tone, and Ivan glanced down with interest at the writhing child before his eyes met Yao’s. “I don’t have much time,” Yao murmured apologetically. “I’m afraid I have…very little strength left,” he winced as he sat, balancing his bundle in one arm.

“We can speak later,” Ivan argued, though also allowing himself to take a seat across from Yao. “I must aid you, my friend. Paris has been healing under God’s hand since the famine, and yet you look as though you haven’t seen bread for ten years.”

“It feels like it, too,” Yao smiled wryly. “I remember when we traversed the streets together all those years ago…before you came _here_ …”

Yao could see the flicker in Ivan’s eyes and felt that hope rekindle in his chest, the hope that his friend…lover…whatever they had been – that _he_ had not forgotten Yao after he went away. The man had never quite taken to the church. He could never truly abandon the streets as Ivan had. And alas, the years had strained their friendship. Once a pair of immigrants – outcasts who belonged neither to France nor outside of it – they now were strangers with a shared past. Yao only hoped Ivan’s sentimentality could overrule the pain of their history.

“Remember the time when we were boys? I would try and steal from the baker but was always caught. I swear, I never escaped that part of town without the police nipping at my heels.”

“You’re lucky you escaped at all,” Ivan smiled, closing his eyes and picturing it. Those early years had been golden; cold and cruel, but filled with friendship and sunlight and God’s warmth, though Ivan may not have realized it at the time.

“Yes,” Yao nodded, looking back at the baby in his arms. It squirmed as Ivan also watched, longing to ask Yao of its origins. “You were the provider. You knew how to intimidate the baker. He’d be cowering in his shop and you’d stroll out with two loaves in hand, plenty for both of us. I’ll never forget that. I’ll never forget how you fed me, cared for me…” Yao trailed off, growing misty-eyed. He felt weaker with every word, and he knew Ivan noticed the way he slouched into the chair. The man was about ready to offer him a meal, but Yao needed to finish his business and get away before his heart betrayed him.

Ivan nodded, urging him to continue.

“I want you to take him,” Yao swallowed thickly, holding the baby out to Ivan.

Ivan blinked for a few moments, in shock, but gradually moved himself closer and took the bundle into his own arms. The baby looked very similar to Yao: dark hair, pale skin, though clearly not European. Like them, it certainly wasn’t a child of France. “I’ve named him Kiku. He’s strong, resilient, and I know you would never turn him away.”

“Naturally not,” Ivan nodded, pawing gently at the blankets until he found the child’s hand. He thumbed at it, smiling at the way the child managed to curl its small fingers around Ivan’s own. “Who did he belong to?” Ivan asked off-handedly.

“He was mine,” Yao looked down in shame. “His mother was a pirate.”

Ivan stopped playing with the child, his violet eyes flashing upwards at the man in front of him. The man he loved, had loved and lost for so many years, had produced the child in his arms.

“Forgive me?” Yao whispered, still hanging his head. Ivan scorned him for not even having the gall to look at his face. That face, crumbled and bent with anguish burned holes into the wall behind Yao’s head. He believed God had forgiven him for loving Yao as he shouldn’t, for treasuring him in a way that was so unholy, but alas…it seemed Ivan was doomed to lose more before God finally made his peace.

“How can you expect me to take him?” Ivan asked, voice trembling with barely-suppressed rage. “You ran out on me, Yao. You shared your bed with a...a _pirate_ – the lowest of the low – and you expect me to raise the offspring of your Godless passions?”

Yao flinched at the way Ivan spat out the word ‘pirate’. He should have known this was a lost effort. His betrayal of Ivan warranted no peace for him or the child, and he knew that they would both continue to suffer long after he was gone. But at least there was a little hope; after all, the man had not dropped Kiku to the floor…yet.

“Now, I consider myself a fair and honorable man,” Ivan raged on, ignoring the pleading expression on Yao’s face, “I have served the Cathedral of Notre-Dame as her archdeacon for almost a decade. I have served and guided the people of Paris, and I believe I have saved many despite my own sins. You betray me, Yao,” he snapped, “because you intend to saddle me with the very reminder that I am still in need of saving. I have sullied myself for your sake – because of _you_ – and you dare ask that I do it again?”

“I don’t ask,” Yao grunted, lifting himself out of the chair and almost collapsing. This time Ivan offered no assistance, but Yao did not wish for his assistance anyways. “I beg,” he whispered, kneeling to the floor in front of Ivan’s feet. “I know I am lost, but please save Kiku. You will be all he has left in this world after I’m gone,” the man explained, looking up into Ivan’s eyes again, placing his hands on the other man’s knees and feeling grateful when he wasn’t immediately shaken off.

“What are you saying?” Ivan demanded.

“I must leave you here. And him,” Yao nodded to where Kiku cuddled up to Ivan’s chest. He was disappointed to see Ivan look at the child coldly, the warmth in his face since replaced with hate. Perhaps he should have lied about Kiku’s origins. Perhaps he had overestimated Ivan’s ability to forgive…

“Where are you going?” Ivan growled, following Yao as the man hastened – albeit still very weak – in the direction of the door.

Yao turned to look at his friend, letting his gaze linger selfishly for a few final moments. This would be the very last time they ever saw each other, and Yao didn’t want the moment to be wasted with meaningless banter or more of Ivan’s curses. But finally, feeling satisfied that Ivan wasn’t going to break the silence, Yao turned away and mumbled a reply to Ivan’s earlier question.

“Hell, Ivan. I’m probably going to hell.”

That was the last time Ivan Braginski saw his friend. Though a body had never been found, he assumed Yao to be dead – likely hoisted and pinned to the mast of a ship by one of his dear pirates. Ivan couldn’t bring himself to care. Yao’s memory stung him to the core, and so he resigned himself to forgetting the man entirely. Yet the sting would never truly fade.

Looking down at the baby in his arms, the child named Kiku, Ivan realized that God had sent the boy to Ivan to punish him for his disloyalty…his incompetence. And so, knowing well that he was fated to raise the boy – his badge of shame – he allowed himself to make some good of the situation. He told himself that Kiku would never engage in the sinful behavior of his parents. He would stay in the church, away from all the thieves and cutpurses and dregs of humankind. He did not belong to Paris, and may never truly belong as he was not French himself, but he could be a child of God as long as he remained in the cathedral.

The snow fell atop both of them, shrouding the city in a white, almost purifying film. And Ivan closed his eyes and prayed, prayed for the salvation of Paris – and for himself.


	2. Chapter 2

It was a cold January morning in 1718 when Kiku awoke to the sound of shuffling in his chambers. Rolling over with a groan, he pulled himself into a sitting position and rubbed furiously at his eyes. Surely he had not overslept? His master would be very cross with him were that to happen again. Once his vision had cleared, however, Kiku was comforted with the sight of his nursemaid Constance preparing a fire in the hearth. She stood, stretching her back as if she’d been hunched over for weeks with an irritable sigh, then turned to Kiku and frowned.

“Pick the crumbs out of your eyes and get dressed,” she chided, tossing his clothes onto the linens. “I’ve already warmed them for you by the fire. It’s going to be a cold day, I’m afeared.”

“No colder than usual, Constance,” Kiku sighed, pulling his arms through the sleeves of his shirt and silently relishing in its warmth. Once buttoned and fitted, he picked up his waistcoat and thumbed at the intricate little patterns on the jade cotton; it had been a gift from his master, and Kiku had been most appreciative considering the older man never endorsed ostentatious dress or behavior – usually wearing black – and Kiku personally found the clothes to be quite stylish, if not a little boisterous.

“Will my master take breakfast with me today?” Kiku asked as Constance fixed the regular display of bread and broth on his side table.

“I’m afraid not,” she muttered distractedly, hissing as some broth spilled from the bowl and splashed onto her hand. “But if you’re desperate for company, I will take breakfast with you. You must hurry, though. Ivan wants you to help with the morning bells and then expects you at prayer.”

The two sat for not more than an hour, but Kiku felt warmed in that short time – eager to start the rest of his day. As it turned out, Ivan knew very little about raising a child (or at least that’s what Constance told Kiku) and as a result was forced to locate a suitable nursemaid for the babe. She had been there from the start: his playmate, teacher, and not quite a mother but perhaps an aunt or older sister. No, Kiku’s mother was a murderous whore, though those were Ivan’s words. Still, Ivan always knew best. And Kiku could not imagine the situation in which he would have been given up, could not bear to imagine a mother who did not want him. Constance was enough for now.

“Will you go out today?” Constance asked, nibbling her crust of bread like an anxious rabbit.

“Ah,” Kiku started, wiping the broth from his lips and glancing off to the side. “No,” he decided, taking a spoonful of broth and letting it settle on his tongue. It was scalding. “I don’t think so.”

“I am perfectly willing to play distraction again,” Constance stared, a fixed look in her misty blue eyes. Kiku slumped in his chair, letting the wisps of hair fall into his face. Where had his comb gone?

No, he understood why she was so eager to get him out. But after twenty years he imagined she’d realize why he _couldn’t_ go outside. That wasn’t to say he hadn’t been out before, because he had, but it had always been while riding in a carriage with his master – away from the prying eyes of the filthy and decrepit (again, Ivan’s words). And once, though he shivered to think about it, she had helped him escape into the real world without the cloak and dagger. He’d mingled with the other Parisians –

_You will **never** be a child of Paris_ , Ivan had told him.

– tasted the wine from a seedy-looking tavern –

_Poison down your throat,_ Ivan had chided.

– strolled aimlessly down Pont Neuf’s stretch and stared at the people and the architecture, admiring the statue of Henry IV and praying earnestly for a chance to ride a horse for himself someday.

They’d almost been caught in the scam, but it was that day that Kiku truly realized…realized he didn’t _want_ a life of seclusion, not like his master who had secluded himself for as long as Kiku had known him; not literally perhaps, but definitely emotionally. Sometimes it felt as though Ivan truly despised Kiku, seen in the way he never touched Kiku, almost couldn’t bear to touch him, or in the way his violet eyes glossed over with a mixture of pain and hatred whenever he looked at Kiku – believing he took no notice.

“What would my master say?”

“He’d likely strip you naked and parade you down the streets,” Constance replied, the only evidence that she was joking being the twitch of her upper-lip. “But it wouldn’t hurt to ask. Look at your complexion,” she crooned, cupping his face with a calloused, wrinkled hand, “you’re so pale you look as though you’ve caught a plague.”

“I get sunlight on the balconies.”

“Before Ivan forces you back inside to pray,” Constance corrected him.

“Prayer is the sign of an honest soul, a good soul,” he defended himself. It seemed odd that he was always defending Ivan to Constance. If only Ivan knew the kind of person he’d hired, Kiku chuckled to himself.

“Yes,” Constance nodded, swallowing a mouthful of wine. “But it is not the _only_ sign.”

\- - -

Kiku enjoyed the way the sun filtered through his hair. He grinned upwards as it splashed upon his cheeks, reclining happily as Emmanuel chimed the hour. He’d wanted to help, but a sudden ache in his shoulder had made things quite difficult, and he had been permitted to step outside for fresh air. This was good, as this might have been Kiku’s last chance to be outside for the day (Ivan seemed in a foul mood), and because he had never been strong enough to do Notre-Dame’s music justice. After all, Emmanuel himself weighed about thirteen tons. And the ringing, though beautiful, was enough to make anyone go deaf after so long. Perhaps Kiku was lucky that he was confined to prayer and literature for the majority of his life.

Still, perched on the cathedral’s face, like a bird on a branch just learning to fly, Kiku looked down below and listened contentedly to the bells. It was no wonder many believe their music brought healing; Kiku’s soul filled with joy at every sound of their vivacious ringing.

_“How handsome you look,”_ a voice purred suddenly in his ear. Kiku started and turned around, seeing no one. He clutched at his chest and tried to regain his breath, glaring up at the air in front of him.

“Elizabeta,” he sighed, “why must you frighten me so?”

_“Because it’s so easy,”_ the voice laughed, _“And I’m long dead, Kiku. I have nothing better to do.”_

_“Except every other ghost on this complex!”_ another voice rang out in unrestrained guffaws. Kiku knew this ghost, too. He called himself Gilbert.

“Where’s Roderich?” Kiku asked, legitimately curious. It wasn’t everyday Gilbert managed to corner Elizabeta alone.

_“Here,”_ one last voice sounded like a broken bell. Kiku turned to his right, though naturally he saw nothing. _“Foul humor, Gilbert. You’re speaking in front of a lady.”_

_“Where is the lady of which you speak, Rod?”_

A yelp sounded and Kiku jumped slightly, though a small smile crossed his face. Gilbert should have known better.

He liked to imagine what they looked like, these three merry ghosts of his; he’d listened to their antics since he was a child. It was always a game for him – making up appearances and backstories for each of them, excluding the details they’d generously provided for him over the years. For example, he knew that Roderich had been a musician, a master of the organ specifically. He and Elizabeta had been somewhat of a thing, he devised; this confused Kiku, as it appeared that Gilbert had been in on this little arrangement as well. He’d rather not learn the specifics of their ventures.

Elizabeta had once been an entertainer, but was brought into the church by Roderich. She never specified to Kiku exactly how she “entertained” people, but he assumed she did it through her voice. There were days in which he’d wander the halls and catch the lone echo of her singing. And then it would be gone once she sensed his presence, disappearing like leaves in the wind.

Gilbert had been a soldier apparently; brought to the cathedral when he was injured and dying, he’d fallen for Elizabeta the second he saw her. The rest was “ancient history”, as Gilbert told it. Apparently he also had silver hair and red eyes, which struck Kiku as a strange image, though he’d learned to shrug it off.

_“Going down there for once?”_ Elizabeta asked, and Kiku felt the weight of her palms on his shoulders.

His eyes widened and he peered over the edge again, taking in the sight of the people rustling about their day-to-day chores.

“Master forbids it,” he answered, turning so that his back faced them. “You know that.”

_“Hey, kid,”_ Gilbert said, and the air on Kiku’s right seemed to grow colder, _“believe me when I say you only live once. You need to get yourself out there. Meet a nice girl, have some nice se-,”_

_“-Gil!”_ Elizabeta interrupted. _“Gently, remember?”_

_“For once, I don’t disagree with him,”_ Roderich said. _“It’s hard to live surrounded by stone and the expectations of those who cannot know love.”_

“Ivan?” Kiku asked. “What of him?”

_“Nothing,”_ Roderich said, though Kiku could hear the distaste in his voice, _“I just don’t understand how someone like him raised someone like you.”_

“I owe everything to my master,” Kiku defended, again recalling that he did that a lot, and all at once the air grew heavier around him. It was as if several different weights pressed against his chest.

_“Maybe and maybe not,”_ Gilbert huffed, _“but you deserve a night out. Go to a tavern and get a drink or something. God knows you need it.”_

Elizabeta hummed in agreement. Kiku felt her hand again, once more pressed against his shoulder, and he felt inclined to turn and look across the city once more.

“To a tavern? Well…I-I could go to the one I saw that one time…I suppose…”

All at once, the presence of his friends seemed to dissipate and Kiku felt very much alone. He shivered in the cold morning air, noting that even the sun had lost some of its warmth. Before he could return inside, however, a different presence made itself known beside him.

“Fluttering about the cathedral, are we?”

Kiku turned, his body stooping in front of Ivan. His face was graced with a pleasant smile, but his eyes remained as frigid as the air around them.

“Master,” Kiku gasped, realizing he’d neglected his duties for almost an hour, “I’m sorry…I was stretching my muscles.”

“Which muscles?”

“My back…near my shoulder,” Kiku said, rubbing at the spot and discovering that it was no longer sore.

Ivan ignored this answer and instead stepped forward to the balcony, his eyes traveling over the shadows in the distance like a buck scans a meadow. He placed his hands on the stone, his nails dragging across it slowly. Kiku stared at him uneasily, slowly stepping forward so that he, too, could look upon everything. Yet he did not, rather he chose to look at Ivan’s hands. He was clearly angry; his fingers twitched and continued to claw subtly until he finally spoke.

“I heard you mention a tavern,” was all he said, but Kiku understood the gravity of the statement; a lecture would likely follow.

“I just…wanted to step out for a bit.”

“You don’t need to step out. You need God’s forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness for what, exactly?”

That had been the wrong question. Ivan’s head snapped to the right, rage and disgust evident in his eyes. His nostrils flared and Kiku lowered his head once more.

“I’ve done everything you’ve asked…since I was a boy I’ve done everything you’ve asked…am I still not pardoned for the sins of my mother?”

“You forget, my boy. You have _two_ parents; the sins of both rest on your soul.”

“You never talk about my father,” Kiku said, though it came out more as a question.

“No,” Ivan answered bluntly, “I don’t.”

Kiku felt something in his chest heave, and then everything within him fell. He knew he would be lectured about his posture, but in that instant he just wanted to slump against the stone. It had been such a beautiful morning, too. His master just…couldn’t understand, and Kiku supposed that was his own fault.

And yet, out of nowhere a hand place itself, almost fondly, on Kiku’s neck. It was stern, holding him in place, but appeared to Kiku as a sign of reassurance. He was stunned; his master _never_ touched him, never consoled him in this way.

“You’ll learn, my boy. You still have some years left in you, after all. But you must stay inside,” Ivan explained, the hand leaving Kiku’s neck and traveling up to his chin, turning it so Kiku was looking his master in the eye. “Taverns are no place for you. They stink of cheap wine and whores, just like the rest of Paris. And you are no Parisian,” Ivan nodded, caressing Kiku’s wind-blown black hair as a point. “They would never accept you – being what you are. That is why you must not give in to temptation and sin, as it will only lead you down the path of isolation. You will be shunned. And why trade the comforts I provide you for such shame and abuse? Why invite their calumny and consternation?”

Kiku felt his throat grow dry; the intensity in Ivan’s eyes had frozen him where he stood. After finding his voice, he nodded and croaked, “I’ll be faithful to you, master.”

This appeared to satisfy the man, for he released his grip on Kiku and turned to stalk away, the black of his clothes blending in with the shadows of Notre-Dame.

“I trust that you will,” Kiku heard him say, and then Ivan was gone again.

\- - -

Admittedly, Alfred had never been bribed before; he’d heard of members of the Guet taking bribes, sure. Hell, he’d heard of corruption in his own ranks, as well. It came with the job, no matter which way you looked. But he’d always thought himself better than that in some way; he just wanted to protect people, he didn’t need money.

Then again, when he was approached by a very intimidating looking man (rather stuffy, actually) who had traveled into Saint-Martin just to see him, he couldn’t very well turn the guy away. And when he had been asked about recent escapades at a local tavern (of which Alfred had significant involvement, admittedly) he couldn’t very well lie to the fellow either.

Alfred was a man of God, or at least he liked to believe God still remembered who he was. If he was lucky, perhaps his friend Matthew would make a case for him up in heaven. They hadn’t fought for nothing after all, bleeding out and cursing everyone and everything (especially Queen Anne herself) until Matthew had finally given in and…well, Alfred knew they deserved a bit more recognition than what they got. Poor Matt.

Still, he hoped God would be on his side this time as the man – whose name was Ivan apparently – proposed he do a service for him, of which Alfred was not entitled to refuse. Service to the people of Paris was the only thing he lived for these days. That being said, he didn’t expect said service to be spying on Ivan’s charge.

“Why not just let him out for a bit? He could have a drink with me, and I guarantee you he’d be so exhausted afterwards he wouldn’t want to do anything but pray for the next ten-thousand years.” Alfred was quite proud of his stamina.

Ivan only responded with a wry smile and an explanation of why that could never happen, but Alfred couldn’t comprehend most of what he said, only that Ivan’s attitude was a mixture of piety and arrogance. If he wasn’t a man of the church, and if Alfred wasn’t a man of God, he would happily take the man in a bar-fight.

“Will you accept?” Ivan smiled pleasantly, but Alfred noted that it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Fine,” Alfred agreed with an irritated sigh, “If anything, at least I can drink the boredom away when this Kiku guy doesn’t show.”

“He’ll show,” Ivan smiled in a way that made Alfred want to take a bath. With holy water.

“God knows it; he’ll show.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Statue of Henry IV:   
> The statue was commissioned by Marie de Médicis in 1614, but was destroyed in 1792 during the French Revolution. It would be rebuilt in 1818 by François-Frédéric Lemot and contained boxes of documents relating the history of Henry IV, placed there by the sculptor himself. 
> 
> Emmanuel:  
> Emmanuel has been a fixed part of Notre-Dame Cathedral since 1681. It's the largest of the cathedral's ten bells, and weighs over 13 tons. It's always rung first for special events and to mark the hours of the day. 
> 
> Guet:  
> The Guet Royal and Garde de Paris were technically two different organizations in the 18th century, but they would eventually merge into one faction. Alfred is a member of the Garde de Paris; they were not always Parisians and tended to be soldiers. From what I've read, they were more of a military force than the Guet, who often took bribes as was mentioned in the chapter. 
> 
> Matthew's Death:  
> So Matthew died in one of the conflicts during the French and Indian Wars, and Alfred is a surviving soldier of those wars. I killed Matthew because I really had no purpose for him, aside from being important to Alfred's mental growth and decision-making. Also, they aren't brothers in this story; just good friends.

**Author's Note:**

> So clearly I had to do some rearranging of the plot to get this scenario to make sense. The first record of a Chinese man in France reportedly goes back to 1684, and so it's entirely possible for Yao to be there. Even if it wasn't, I'd still have found a way to include him. 
> 
> Also, I didn't want to change Kiku's physical description so the main character isn't ugly in this - which I guess kind of contradicts the whole point of Hunchback in the first place. Oh well. Instead, Kiku is an outcast because that's how Ivan will raise him, both out of anger for what Yao did to him and out of loathing for Kiku himself. We'll see more of that in the next chapter. 
> 
> In case you're curious about the rest of the casting, here's how I imagine it being:  
> Frollo: Russia  
> Quasimodo: Japan  
> Esmeralda: England  
> Phoebus: America  
> Clopin: France  
> I may include other Hetalia characters in there, but these are our main five. 
> 
> Also, because this fic is based on so many different things, I want to give credit where credit is due. My idea for this fic came from a YouTube video called APH - Heaven's Light/Hellfire by BlueFireTigerLion. I strongly suggest you check it out.


End file.
